crows of strasbourg

14.

The Patricia slowly approached the circular port of Genoa.

First came the hills, which took on an indifferent tan in January.If it had been a sunny day with no wind, one could see smoke curling up from houses hidden among dead trees, adorning the dry, cloudless sky, but not today.It was a damp and gloomy day, with deep winter gray clouds hanging over the sea like a soggy stage curtain.Then came the breakwater, from which sailors could already smell the harbour, rubbish, crowds, wet wood, silt and leaking diesel.When the Patricia dropped anchor, the remaining daylight disappeared completely, and Genoa revealed her shadows in different shades, the facades of buildings blackened by the sea wind, beggars and prostitutes, porters with dull eyes .No one paid any attention to the young men disembarking from the freighter.

"American." The customs officer glanced at him, flipping through the pages of the passport with his stubby red fingers.

Leon wasn't sure whether it was a question or a statement, so he smiled the most attentively within his ability and nodded.The customs officer asked something in Italian, and raised his chin at Leon's black canvas bag. The American looked around for a while before turning his attention to the above-mentioned canvas bag, "Sorry, I don't speak Italian."

The customs officer turned his head and yelled something to the office behind him, maybe a name, someone inside answered loudly, every word was like a flying gravel.The chubby customs officer turned back and put on a sticky English, "Is this all the luggage?"

"Yes." The coat should just cover the butt of the gun, and Leon prayed it would.

"Open." The customs officer threw out a word, and made a pulling motion with his hands.

Leon opened the cloth bag and took out the contents one by one according to the customs officer's instructions, wallet, crumpled bills, pencils, coil pad, a rolled up scarf, and a small wooden box without decoration.The customs officer reached out to pick up the wooden box, shook it, and it made a rattling sound.

"Don't touch it." Leon blurted out.

The customs officer narrowed his eyes and his forehead was wrinkled. "Why, Mr. Hope?"

"This is," he stammered, clearing his throat, "I don't want to see it. It's my grandmother's engagement ring, which I gave to my fiancée, a girl born in Crete, two years ago. Sir, I am a foreign correspondent and travel a lot, too often, in her opinion." He paused, observing the customs officer's face, "She returned the ring to me a month ago. I don't want to see it again. When it comes to it, I'm not ready."

"Why come to Genoa?"

"I don't know, I just want to leave Greece and take the first boat that leaves."

The other party's face softened, "What's her name?"

Leon grabbed the first name that popped into his mind, "Anna."

There is nothing more painful than this, the customs officer touched his heart and agreed.When he was young, he fell in love with a Neapolitan girl and was willing to gouge out his heart and eyes as a gift to her.The youngest daughter of the local accountant, the most charming girl in the world, very religious, volunteers at the soup kitchen every Christmas, the only problem is that she is married to a salesman.The customs officer returned the wooden box to him, "You can go, Mr. Hope."

It took all of Leon's willpower not to run wild.

The square is silent and empty, the fountain has been drained, leaving only a pile of gray granite, and the bottom of the pool is piled with dried mud and fallen leaves blown by the wind. "Has Mr. McAllen been to Genoa before?" he asked the captain, when the ship was only a day's voyage from port.

"Two or three times."

"Did he mention his friends in Genoa?" Leon pressed, following him into the engine room.

"McAllen doesn't talk about himself," the captain scribbled in a notebook without a cover, his accent slurred when he got impatient, "but he goes to the same bar every time and talks to him. Been there once and everyone was playing pool and I don't like pool."

"What's the name of the bar?"

Called The Anchor and the Hound, the door is closed, and a wooden sign hanging from the handle announces that the Irish pub does not open until ten at night.Leon sat on the cold stone base of the fountain and hugged the canvas bag tightly.A group of drunks turned the corner, staggering, singing at the top of their lungs.

That's when he noticed another person, in front of a closed restaurant, almost blending into the shadow of the doorway.Leon thought it was a child at first, but when the man stood up, the illusion disappeared.He was short and thin and seemed malnourished, with twig-like limbs that gave the impression of an insect.He was clutching a woolen cap, and upon noticing Leon's gaze, the stranger slipped the cap over his thinning head and walked away, hands in his trouser pockets.

Leon quickly left the square—the place suddenly became a dangerous hunting ground—and went into the narrow alleys, looking back at the empty streets from time to time.No one followed, and he continued to run for a while before stopping, leaning against the stone wall for breath.

The faint sound of a violin came from an open window in the distance.A dog is barking, two people are talking in an inaudible whisper, voices echoing between the stone walls, a woman is laughing, the door is slamming shut.Footsteps, gradually approaching.

Leon watched as a shadow walked under the streetlight.

He had seen this man in Belgrade, same trench coat, same black gloves.Leon turned and ran away subconsciously, but the short man in the woolen hat appeared quietly and blocked his way.

"You're very hard to find, Mr. Christen," said the Russian, in a kind of angular English, and Leon could see the faint glint of the metal barrel in his hand, "I don't believe we've been introduced to each other yet, My name is Sokolov."

The sender remembered the weapon, but Sokolov was much faster, and the butt of the gun hit him hard on the head, knocking Leon unconscious before he fell.

-

Shortly after daylight, a black car, splattered with mud, pulled up in front of the Anchor and Hound.

The owner of the bar, a Mr. Arthur Greaves - 52 years old, with only a few thinning white hairs around his ears - watched the car from the second-floor window.The driver did not go to the gate, but took a detour and rang the bell of the side door.Greaves lets go of the curtains and looks at the two agents clustered around the phone.

"It's Hines."

"Who's Hines?" asked the younger one.

"Go down and open the door," said the older one succinctly.

He didn't specify who was supposed to go down to answer the door, and the young agent and Greaves looked at each other for a while, with the latter starting first.With the wooden stairs creaking under his house slippers, and the kitchen still smelling of roasted meat and fermenting malt, Greaves flipped two latches and opened the door.The intruder grinned at him and looked like he hadn't shaved in days.

"Good morning, Arthur."

The barkeep sideways let him in, relocked the door, and pushed the latch back. "It's not that I don't like seeing you," he began, "but if I remember correctly, the 'whip' took you—"

"Yes." Hines took off his coat, draped it over his arm, and strode across the kitchen, "Is anyone upstairs?"

Greaves hurried to follow, slippers slipping on the tiles, "Two fools from Rome, arrived early in the morning, from Prescott, not from the embassy."

"I need your help. I'm looking for a boy."

"So do they."

"For God's sake."

"There was also a KGB, our people in Istanbul lost him."

Hines stopped abruptly, the wooden stairs creaked, and Greaves nearly ran into him. "A KGB?"

"Nearly killed the agent in charge of surveillance, I heard, got here first, only a few hours before the two upstairs. The boy was ahead of them all, and passed customs thirteen hours ago. Pu Liscott was tango'ing with the Italians and it was a mess and SID was very upset. And you," Greaves gasped, "what's the matter with you? I've heard thirty versions of the rumors that you Come back, others say you're a traitor."

"We'll talk about that later, Arthur."

Hines climbed the last few stairs, pushed open the door, and both agents stood up, the older one raising his hand and lowering it, as if about to reach for a gun, then changed his mind halfway. "Tell me everything you know," Hines said.

The young agent responded instinctively to the instruction, "There are some preliminary clues that Christen may be in the hands of the Soviets. The Bonn station intercepted some telegrams and is still deciphering them, but Moscow—"

"Shut up," interrupted his older colleague, and the young man flinched, looking down at his shoes, "this is our case. I believe Hynes needs to get back to Istanbul and do his job." , rather than putting your hand into someone else's task."

"You can't even find your fingers anywhere, Wes, let alone someone." Hines turned to Greaves, who was still standing in the doorway, like a hesitant marmot, "Is 'Professor' still alive? The dock bum?"

"Yes, came here last week and begged for a bonito sandwich."

"Go talk to him, give him a few more lires, and tell him to keep an eye on our boy. As for you," Hynes pointed to the young agent, who straightened up, "keep an eye on the planes and trains, Especially those going to France and Germany, going west and then east, which is often the case with Sokolov."

Wes grabs his elbow. "You can't call the shots here."

"You can call Prescott to complain and tell him to send more puppies to drive me away." Hines broke free from his hand, "Before that, I have the final say here."